Chapter Text
Kiyoomi Sakusa wasn’t oblivious to what people thought of him—standoffish, blunt, rude. He could go on. Not that he took offense; most of it was true. He hated crowds, avoided the media whenever possible, and left his social accounts in the hands of a management team. He wasn’t the type to go out of his way to make friends, nor did he feel the need to correct anyone’s assumptions about him.
So, it came as a surprise to everyone who even vaguely knew him when the pair became an item.
They were opposites in every sense of the word. Where she was sociable and bright, he was introverted and aloof. She thrived in the spotlight, effortlessly engaging with fans and reporters, while he preferred to let his skills on the court speak for themselves. Where she was warm and expressive, he was reserved and guarded. But what they did share was their drive, their stubbornness, and an unrelenting motivation to be the best at what they did.
She was a phenomenal athlete in her own right—one of the reasons he’d noticed her in the first place. He admired her dedication, the way she pushed herself past her limits, refusing to accept anything less than excellence. She understood the sacrifices, the grueling training, the constant pressure. She didn’t just sympathize; she got it .
The way they met was purely by accident. Sakusa had been working out with his teammates, half-forced into it by their captain under the guise of team building . He wasn’t particularly fond of group activities—he preferred training on his own, at his own pace, without the constant chatter and unnecessary distractions. But arguing would have been more trouble than it was worth, so there he was, begrudgingly participating.
It was supposed to be a routine gym session, nothing out of the ordinary. He stuck to his usual regimen, tuning out the noise, until she walked in.
At first, he hadn’t paid much attention. He didn’t care for unnecessary socializing, and he certainly didn’t care for whoever else was using the gym. But it was impossible to ignore her presence. The way she carried herself—with the kind of confidence and intensity that only came from years of dedication—caught his attention before he even realized it.
She wasn’t just there to work out. She was pushing herself, training with a focus and precision that mirrored his own. He watched, only briefly, as she powered through her routine, completely unfazed by the chaos around her. It wasn’t for show. It wasn’t for attention. She was simply working .
That was four years ago.
Now, their relationship was as natural as everything else in his life—like training, like competition, like the air he breathed. It wasn’t something he had to think about, wasn’t something he questioned. It was there , steady and unwavering, woven seamlessly into the rhythm of his daily life.
She was the one constant in a world that demanded too much. Through grueling seasons, exhausting travel schedules, and the relentless pressure of being at the top, she remained. She understood the silences, the moments when words weren’t necessary. She knew when to push and when to let him be. And in return, he gave her the quiet kind of devotion that only someone like him could offer.
It still baffled people—how they worked, how someone as reserved and private as him could end up with someone so bright, so effortlessly magnetic. But Kiyoomi had long since stopped caring what anyone else thought.
With the arrival of the Olympics—and both of them making the cut—social media seemed to latch onto the couple.
It started subtly at first. A few clips here and there, grainy training footage where they happened to be in the same frame, speculation in comment sections about whether they’d be competing on the world stage together . But the moment the official rosters were announced, their names mentioned in the same article, the internet exploded .
Fan edits, analysis threads, heated debates over which one was more competitive. Articles dissecting their training regimens, headlines dubbing them the power couple of the games. It was relentless.
Kiyoomi hated every second of it.
He had never been fond of attention outside of his sport, and this was a whole new level of invasive. Clips of them training separately were cut together as if they were practicing side by side. People scrutinized every expression, every glance, every moment of shared screen time. Some fans even dug up their oldest interviews, trying to pinpoint when their relationship had officially started—as if it had been some kind of well-guarded secret waiting to be unraveled.
But while Kiyoomi bristled at the unwanted spotlight, she took it in stride. She had always been better at handling the public eye, fielding questions with ease, laughing off absurd theories. She reminded him, with a teasing smirk, that they weren’t the ones making a big deal out of it—social media was. And if anything, it was just another distraction they didn’t need to waste energy on.
So he tried to ignore it. To focus on what really mattered.
Because at the end of the day, all that mattered was stepping onto the court or the rink, proving— once again —why they were among the best in the world.
And if the cameras happened to catch the way he lingered by her side before a match, or how she always found him first after a win… well.
That wasn’t for the world to pick apart. That was theirs .
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The radio played softly, providing a nice background to Kiyoomi’s doom scrolling. Sure, he didn’t partake in social media in the sense of posting, that’s what his management team was for, but that didn’t mean he was completely out of the zeitgeist. In all honesty, and something he would vehemently deny if asked, the only reason he really got on was to check what his girlfriend posted. Gorgeous didn’t even begin to describe what he thought of her. Ethereal, maybe? As he watched her latest Tiktok he surely thought that encapsulated her well. It would be a shock to most people, outside of Motoya probably, how absolutely, horrendously down bad he was for the woman. Kiyoomi, the man made of stone, reduced to a blushing school boy at the sight of his girlfriend’s GRWM.
He was, as Atsumu would say, so whipped. Here he was, sat in his car waiting for his girlfriend to finish practice while he scrolled through her latest posts. He lived with the woman, for Christ's sake. Slept in the same bed, woke up next to her, literally got ready with her and had done so for the past three years. The media would have a field day with that information.
Very few people knew that the pair had been dating for as long as they had, much less that they’d moved in together after their first year. No one really expected it, his own family most of all, but it just made sense.
Yes, Kiyoomi was… particular about his space and held himself and it to a certain standard, but he also liked having her near. Their schedules were both hectic and in the beginning they’d sometimes go weeks without seeing each other. That caused a lot of tension early on in their relationship. So, ever the problem solver, Kiyoomi mentioned her moving in—five months into their relationship. She declined, of course. But they got to it seven months later anyway.
Kiyoomi is pulled from his thoughts when he sees the doors of the skating rink swing open. He spots a few familiar faces but not the one he wants to see. After a few minutes he finally sees her all but skipping to meet him. It’s unreal the way she still has so much energy after what he knows is a grueling practice. He pops open the trunk so that she can set her things down before exiting the car.
She all but threw herself at him, to which he caught her as he always did, “You’re a freak.”
The way she doesn’t bat an eye at the comment is a testament to how used to him she truly is, “You didn’t have to come get me, you know.”
“I’m fully aware,” he states while wrapping his arms around her. “‘Thank you’ is what people usually say.”
She hums, “Thank you.”
He offers a feigned dismissive, “Yeah, Yeah,” before taking her bag and placing it in the trunk of his car. “Let’s get you home, weirdo.”
Once they’re settled in the car Kiyoomi asks, “How was it today? Feeling alright?”
The worry in his voice didn’t go unnoticed by her. She nods and he sighs as he pulls out of the parking spot, “Be honest.”
His hand finds its way to her thigh, as it often did when she sat beside him, and gave her a soft squeeze as he waited for her response. She gave a long-suffering sigh as she is wont to do whenever he pressed her on things regarding her wellbeing. “I’m fine, Kiyo, promise.”
He doesn’t buy it, but he’ll drop the matter for now. His thumb draws absentminded shapes on her thigh as he navigates the evening traffic, “You still haven’t told me how it went.”
“It was okay,” she responded shortly. The attitude wasn’t aimed at him, they’d been together long enough for him to know what that tone was like. This was not that.
“You’ll get it,” he says, voice holding a softness that was only reserved for her. She was her own harshest critic, as he was his own, but he was her biggest supporter. A fact that went both ways.
“I know,” she sighs. Her hand finds his and he quickly interlaces their fingers. “But… I don’t know, it shouldn’t feel this hard.”
“Yes it should,” in the soft glow of the red traffic light Kiyoomi is certain that he’s never, and would never, meet anyone as beautiful. He knew what was likely going on in her head, every critique swimming and pooling together until they’re drowning her. He’d seen it before in the way she would obsessively watch tapes of her competitions, in the way his bright girl would dim under the shadow of a less than perfect performance. “It means you’re pushing yourself and getting even better than you already are. You’re where you are for a reason, you earned your place.”
The way her shoulders relax slightly and she settles in her seat instead of feeling like she’s about to tell him to pull over and get out of the car lets him know that he’s done what he can for the time being. This was a side to her very few people got to see. Gone was the inscrutable confidence and poise the media persona people had latched onto, and was what was left was what every athlete feels at least once in their careers—imposter syndrome.
Not that it was warranted, in Kiyoomi’s very professional and unbiased opinion. She was in a league all her own. He would be the first to admit that his knowledge of the sport was lackluster when they first met, he’d spent his own life dedicated to volleyball and little else. But, the first time he saw her perform he—long before they became a couple—he was taken aback. She moved with a grace that seemed woven into her very being, performed like it was the only natural thing to do. The technique that went into her work, he learned later, was as demanding as his own, but she made it look easy. It was a testament to her talent. It wasn’t just Kiyoomi who thought so; she was favored to take home gold, not just in Japan. That, however, was a double-edged sword. High praise often led to even harsher criticisms.
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Kiyoomi was known for being very particular. He liked to keep things clean and organized, sometimes to an obsessive level. At least he used to. In his teenage years that was certainly true, but time had changed that. Maybe not so much time as it was just simply living with her had eased some of his more ornery tendencies. She wasn’t messy , but her spaces were lived in. Mugs left on the counter as they waited for the extra shelving to get delivered, her throw blanket left on the plush armchair and kindle still on the coffee table not too far, plants and framed pictures—all a testament to how embedded she was in their shared space.
“I’m gonna shower,” she calls out as he shuts the door behind them. She leaves her sports bag by the entrance and Kiyoomi doesn’t chide her for doing so. Under normal circumstances he’d ask her to put it away, citing his worry that she’ll manage to trip over and injure herself. But, some ‘fights’ were better left unfought.
He hums in response, wandering into the kitchen and rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie. The fridge hums softly as he opens it, retrieving the prepped ingredients he had set aside earlier. Even though she had protested before she’d left earlier that day claiming he didn’t need to do that for her, he knew better. She always got hungry after practice, and she liked knowing there was something warm waiting for her when she was done. Besides, he enjoyed doing it when he could. They’d normally get food prepared for the week, easy and simple with their respectively busy schedules.
As he sets a pot on the stove, he hears the water start running from the bathroom, muffled but still present. It’s an oddly domestic sound, one that fills the quiet of their home in a way he never used to appreciate before. His fingers drum against the countertop absentmindedly as he waits for the oil to heat up, gaze flickering to the picture frame near the dining table—one of the two of them from a trip last spring. She had insisted on taking it, dragging him into the shot with a laugh, her hand clasped around his wrist like she was afraid he’d bolt. He hadn’t. He never would.
Kiyoomi hadn’t realized how much time had passed until he felt a pair of arms snake around his torso and cheek pressed against his back. “Careful,” he says but there’s no heat behind his words.
“Sorry,” she murmurs.
“You don’t have-”
She interrupts, “I was being snippy with you. Let me apologize.”
He chuckles, because her attitude earlier he wouldn’t exactly classify as ‘snippy’, he’s been on the receiving end of that before, but he doesn’t argue.
“You were being nice to me and I wasn’t being nice back. I do appreciate you picking me up. I also do appreciate you looking out for me, you know. It was just… it was a rough day.”
“I know.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
He nods as he moves to grab plates, koloa in tow. “It doesn’t,” he agrees. “But I know you enough to know you didn't mean it.”
The soft, unspoken understanding between them lingers in the space between words. He doesn’t need her apology, not really—he knows her, knows the weight of her bad days, knows how exhaustion sits heavy on her shoulders sometimes. But he lets her say it anyway, because she needs to, because she’s the kind of person who won’t let a sharp edge sit between them for long.
He pats her hands and she detaches herself from him. Insteading choosing to hoist herself onto the kitchen counter island, “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” after collecting the plates he returns to her. He sets the plates down and places his hands on her hips, scooting her closer to the edge and himself, “Wanna set the table?”
There’s an unspoken meaning in the request: We’re good. Let’s move on. And she takes it, nodding but before she hops down she presses a kiss to his lips. Soft and sweet and still able to set his heart racing even after all these years.
He pats her hip lovingly as he lets her down. They fall into a familiar rhythm, moving around each other with an ease born of time. Warm contentment washes over him. He’d never thought he would have this . In his youth, foolishly, he’d seen relationships as distractions, and sometimes they could be, but this wasn’t that. This was accountability, this was having someone to come home to who made the good days great and the bad ones bearable. Rough days come and go, but this —the way they found their way to each other through the fog—this was what mattered.